Lilliputian Injustice

Listening to the radio on the way home from my mom's house.  Radio personality & all around funny man, Greg Beharrell chimed in between the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Collective Soul to mention how wasteful it is for pizza companies to just use the tiny table in their pizza boxes and throwing away all the tiny little chairs.  I took a moment to think about the words that just tumbled out of Mr. Beharrell's mouth and into my ear holes.  The words dancing around inside my cranium, like a pinball on adrenaline.  Bing. Bing. Bang. Boop.  I don't know exactly what the boop was, but it got my creative juices a flowin' and got my fat ass seated in front of my laptop to bring y'all another rousing edition of my Brain Matter.

"Yes!" I muttered to myself and yes, I tend to audibly speak to myself when I'm alone.  All geniuses do and if you don't, then well....  (Insert awkward pause.😳)

"Yes!" I audibly said, as the heavy guitar riff from Collective Soul's Where the River Flows began.  "That is wasteful..., unless..."

Maybe the pizza companies don't just toss out the tiny chairs, maybe the chairs are donated to tiny people.  Tiny people who use and appreciate these free chairs, but seeing as the tables are all absent, used to save the hot melted cheese on pizzas from sticking to the top of the box, instead.

Poor tiny people forced to sit and eat their dinners and their snacks off their laps like the olden days before tables were invented. How many millions of chairs have been given away since the advent of the tiny pizza table?  There's, at least, a pair of chairs to every table and judging from the bulging waistlines of most North American's, there's a f*ck-ton of tiny chairs out there somewhere...  Probably in the dump, because who are we kidding?  Corporate Pizza doesn't give a shit about helping tiny people out.  Tiny people aren't buying giant pizzas.  Tiny people aren't the target audience for such privileges as pizza.

Greg Beharrell has exposed the pizza industry for what they are.  Evil overlords who oppress tiny people who stand at less than two inches.  Greg Beharrell is a good man and we should thank him for bringing this injustice to light.

Bird Brain

"It must suck," I thought, looking up into the sky at a couple of small black birds flying and gliding against the wind, "Being a bird unable to comprehend what that invisible force is preventing it from flight to the south."

"If only," I was conceiving in my mind, " One could be a bird, but with all the intelligence of a human being." 🤔 

Talk about a bird brain. However, the more I sat there, laid back in the deck chair, staring intently on these little birds, I began to surmise.

Then again, these birds have dealt with this invisible menace their entire existence.  I'm sure they've figured out ways to combat the wind.  One needs not understand an opponent's motives in order to thwart the foe.

I sat quietly in that deck chair, my gaze slowly descending from the heavens to the very deck I was perched upon.  "Who's the bird brain now?" 😔

That's Amore?

"When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that's amore!"  Or so it would seem, according to recording legend, Dean Martin.  He goes on crooning about other factors that equate to true love, but he never elaborates on whether it was a professionally-made pizza or a homemade one, crafted by one's mother.  Upon further speculation, I don't know which would be more beneficial to be clobbered in the face with... 🤔  That, however, is not what this blog will be about.  Instead, we're going to meander down the twisted rabbit hole which is the ongoing debate of what is better:  Pizza that is delivered VS a pizza made at home, from scratch.

Every morning I tune in to 96.3 Cruz-FM.  I love listening to the morning show personalities, Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  Their banter is second to none.  If you were to look at me when I'm listening to the show, you'll always see a big smile on my face, if I'm not laughing out loud.  They're a great pair and I hope they're on the air forever.  I also, like them because despite my constant texting into the show to relate to whatever the subject is that day, they're always kind and receptive, except that one time...  Just kidding. 😏

As per the usual, I was listening to the show and, admittedly I don't know how they got onto the subject, but nevertheless, they did, and the subject was PIZZA.  Stacie swears that homemade pizza is far better than delivery.  I can't say for certain that this actually happened, but I swear that I heard half the city exclaim in unison, "WHAT?!?"  If that never actually occurred, then Clayton spoke for all of us when he abruptly responded with "WHAT?!?" 😕  They immediately went into a mock trial where each participant defended their claim and I have to give the victory to Clayton, however, I do see some of Stacie's point.

Iron Chef Bobby Flay schleps pizza.

Stacie has been watching cooking shows and loves watching pizza being prepared at home, from scratch, rather than people always ordering in.  I understand the appeal of these shows, as I also watch them, from time-to-time.  The sound of whirring mixers or sizzling frying pans is a guilty pleasure of mine, which I presume is the case for many people.  It's very rarely, however, that I've ever attempted to replicate anything I've seen on TV.  However, listening to the premise of creating one's own pizza pie at home, is somewhat appealing, however, I always factor in the cost, mess and clean-up versus the reward.

There are billboards all over town, advertising one of the local pizzerias.  They boast this "incredible" deal of two large pizzas (12"), a 2L soda pop, a pound of ribs and a half dozen 2-bite brownies for an astounding price of just $68.99.  Yep!!  With tax, that food is well over seventy bucks.  Suddenly, making pizza at home sounds pretty f**king good.  I know your bank account would thank you.

Cheaper to make, perhaps.  Until you get to the grocer only to discover all the ingredients you desire, also cost an arm and a leg.  Practically need to get a second mortgage on the house just to pay the grocery bill.  Suddenly delivery sounds pretty damned good.  Plus, no mess.  Just a greasy pizza box that gets tossed into the recycling bin.  Your bank account may not like too much, but Mother Earth does.

Just look at this monstrosity from a local eatery.  Over an inch of meat and goodness.  May cost the price of your left arm, but there's no way, even on my best day ever, that I'd ever be able to make a pizza like this.

So which is better?  Difficult to say.  Personally, I have to go with the masses and choose delivery over homemade pizza.  As for which is better to get struck in the face with, I'd go with the homemade pie. 🍕

Dean Martin never specified which type of pie struck him in the eye to learn of the love directed at him, but maybe.  Just maybe.  It was a homemade pie, that fell apart immediately as it left the tosser's hand and only a little tomato sauce got in his eye.  That's amore?  A mother's love, perhaps?  I dunno.  That's a secret that went to the grave of the award-winning singer.

Iraqi Balboa

This past week at work, we began our new work pieces.  Every few months, representatives of the union and transit give new options for transit workers to change the routes of what they were doing to do something new.  Many retain the routes that they were doing previous, some even have been doing the same route for years, while others change shit up every once in awhile to keep things fresh and new.  If it were up to me, I would have continued doing the work I'd been doing since the start of the New Year, but fate would have other plans.  While my work was still there in the morning, by the time it was my turn for sign up, it was gone.  I was forced into something new and while I don't very much enjoy my weekday schedule, my Saturdays are da bomb!  It's only for two months and maybe, on my next sign up, I'll get back to what I was doing before, but if not, hopefully, I can keep this Saturday piece.  It's freakin' awesome, if you didn't already know.

So the latter piece of my Saturday, involves driving routes 44 and 45, which all return downtown as the Number 4.  I did a similar run last year, between October and the end of December, only this time, it's not as hectic and I'm not running an Artic (articulating bus) on the route.

On my second run downtown, returning as the Number 4 bus, I arrived at a stop along College Drive.  Mostly because there was a crowd waiting, but in part because this little Muslim boy stuck his arm out, as if he'd just told the crowd to "Hold on! I've got this!"

He was a very mature little boy of what appeared to be less than 5 years old.  He stepped aboard the bus, arms clasped behind his little body, venturing inward, gesturing like he was inspecting the troops.  As if he were a child-version of General Patton. His parent followed, his proud father with a gigantic smile stretched across his face, his mother behind him, with only a Mona Lisa smile.  They were followed by a cavalcade of people.

One of the side-facing seats were up, because a person with a stroller had been in that spot, earlier.  The young Muslim family sat next to the open spot.  Then no sooner had I continued on the route, that I heard the stop request bell go off.  Not once, like you'd expect, but multiples, like you'd hear from a pinball machine. BING! BING! BING!  BING! BING! BING!  This shit just aggravates me, because it's usually an immature person trying to be funny.

I once had a guy on the bus, who rang the bell for every stop, thinking he was being hilarious.  I told him to stop and he'd deny that he'd rung the bell.  "Sir!" I said sternly, "You're the ONLY person on the bus, besides me!"  The dirty young fella looked around and realized that he couldn't hide his guilt."  He continued to pull the cord, until I booted him off the bus.

This situation was different.  It wasn't an immature delinquent trying to be a funny man.  It was the young Muslim child who'd turned the Handicapped alert bell into his own private boxing gym.  The kid had mad skills, for being so young.  He looked like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.  BING! BING! BING!

I kindly requested that the bell not be pressed unless they were prepared to exit the bus.  The boy's father, his previous huge smile now dissippating turning into a look of embarrassment.  He pulled his son away, while the child's mother lowered to seat to discourage further interaction.

After a couple more stops, I heard that ever-so-familiar BING! BING! BING! BING!  I looked into the rear viewing mirror and saw that the determined young fella was now laying on his back, underneath the now lowered bench seat, hammering on that handi-button, while his panicked parents struggled to pull the stubborn kid out from beneath.

Once we'd arrived downtown, the kid, once more with hands clasped behind his tiny back, strode off the bus, tossing me a glance of approval.

Asinine-one-one

 

Hmm.  How do I say this without sounding like a pervert or idiot?  I have an awesome and talented ass.

"Wait!  What did you say, Jeff?" you're asking yourselves, "A talented.... Ass?"

I was driving for work, today, as I do everyday, listening to the radio through a bluetooth speaker, when suddenly, out of the blue, an alarm cuts in, interrupting the radio broadcast.  I'm instantly annoyed, believing that it's the Emergency Alert chiming in to do a test as it often does at the most inopportune times.  Usually whilst I'm watching television, but in this case it was in the middle of a U2 song.  I pulled over to pick up another passenger, taking the opportunity to check my phone and delete this bullshit emergency tone, when I discovered that my ass had mistakenly butt-dialed 911.

I often carry my phone in my back pocket, always without issues, but today, somehow, my ass managed to unlock my phone, swipe it to get to the main screen, pressed the phone calling option, then dial 9, followed by two 1's.  How this was possible, I haven't got the foggiest of ideas.  Only that it happened.  Not once, but a second time, when I was trying to delete all the calls that my ass was making.

Now when I claim that my ass made the phone call to the Emergency 9-1-1, it wasn't the whole ass, but my left cheek to be specific.  How this was possible, it being necessary to press and swipe multiple times, I don't f**king know.  It baffles me almost as much as it pissed me off.  For the remainder of my day, I kept thinking that emergency vehicles were going to track my phone, but alas, the one thing to go right, this afternoon, was no intervention by police or fire.

High Five

I like to listen to the radio when I'm driving at work.  It's Cruz in the AM, because I love hearing the comedic banter between the hosts Clayton Kroeker and Stacie Cooper.  In the afternoons I sometimes stay with Cruz, but more times than not, lately anyway, I've been listening to either Rock 102, which is local or else 104 The Wolf out of Regina.  Regina doesn't have much going for it, other than home to the Saskatchewan Roughriders, a Carl's Jr restaurant and the radio station 104.1 FM - The Wolf.  Today happened to be one of those days where music from the Queen City's station filled the air inside Bus #1812.

Near the end of my shift, the announcer came on with a funny story out of the United States.  When he began telling the short tale, I began to chuckle, believing the outcome to result with 9-1-1 being called, but sadly that funny finish would never come to fruition, but the story remained amusing all the same.

It seems that there was a little girl who had awoken early from a nap, got out of bed and went searching for her mother.  Taking advantage of their young daughter being asleep, mommy and daddy squirrelled off to their bedroom for some sexy time. 

Unbeknownst to them, amid their sensuality, their daughter was wide awake and searching the house for them.  It wasn't until she overheard a commotion erupting from her parents room, when she went to investigate.  Luckily, for both she and her parents, the door was locked, preventing the child from witnessing what was actually happening behind the door.  Sound, on the other hand, was not prohibited from passing through the locked entryway.

The horror that rushed through the mind of the small toddler was overwhelming.  Sounds of bloody murder came erupting from the inner sanctum of the parents' sleeping chamber.  Not before too long, the child began crying.  Sobbing and wailing, all the while pounding on the door, begging for her mother to be safe.  Screaming for help.  

Mom and dad, alarmed at the sound of their baby is such distress brought them rushing to the door to see what was the matter.

Mother with her child, now nestled in her arms, tried her best to calm the distraught infant, softly whispering apologies and affirmations that mommy and daddy were just playing.  That daddy wasn't trying to hurt mommy.

At the end of the story, the radio announcer simply stated, "I don't know what dad was doing, but good for you, Buddy.  High Five!!" ✋

Brown Eye Sees Red

Although it may sound like what I'm about to declare is cynical, I assure you that this is not the case.  Simply put, throughout my life I've observed many people and things, resulting in my having certain attitudes and beliefs.  Many, or more likely, most people will disagree and this is where the label of Cynic would be bestowed upon me.

I don't believe in God, Jesus or Heaven and Hell.  The likelihood that once upon a time there was a dude named Jesus, is possible.  Hell, you could go down any street in the greater Los Angeles area, call out that name and a half dozen fellas of Latin decent will respond, so the likelihood of one existing in the "biblical" age, is possible.  He probably wouldn't have been found at a Home Depot....  Although, Jesus WAS a carpenter, wasn't he? 🤔  Hmm.  Subject for another day.

I also do not believe in coincidences, accidents or luck.  Not good luck, anyway.  I am somewhat superstitious.  Not to the point that I believe Friday the 13th to be cursed, nor do I think it unfortunate if a black cat crosses my path.  However, I do think that if I break a mirror I will receive seven years of bad luck, although with a good lawyer, you might get that reduced to three years with good behaviour. 😄 [Insert comedic rimshot here 🥁].  I think Wednesdays tend to be the worst day of the week for me, but have improved over the course of the last year, so perhaps I can lay that one to rest.  And red underwear promotes diarrhea.

"WAIT!! What was that last one?" you all are probably saying to yourselves. "Red underwear does what now?" 

I've discovered through trial and error that consistently, whenever I leave the house wearing red underwear, I usually will have an accident or what is called in the armed forces as a near miss.  Today I had a near miss and I will tell you all about it.

It was dark and I was still half asleep when I dressed myself for work, this morning, so I never noticed what colour of undies I was stepping into.  I got to work and everything went as planned.  I arrived downtown late and missed the shuttle back to the garage, so I waited.  When I finally got back to the Operations Center where we keep the buses, I had to go inside to fill out the sheet for overtime.  It was when I was returning to my vehicle to come home when I felt a little pfft.  A little fart snuck out like a teen sneaking out her bedroom window to see the bad boy her parent disapprove of.  Only the aftermath of this sneaky little ripper felt... off.  I stopped dead in my tracks, standing in the middle of the parking lot looking perplexed.  It wasn't until I sat down in my vehicle before I realized what had actually happened.  If the wetness I felt in my undercarriage wasn't enough to convince me, the stench certainly did.  Woof!! 😬

What's done was done.  No getting around that.  I had planned on stopping off at the grocer on the way home and decided to follow through with that plan rather than racing home.  I figured I could salvage my situation in the public restroom before going home.

Have you ever had to "go" really bad and as soon as you arrived at home, it's like your body believes it's okay to open the flood gates before you get to the restroom?  That never happened to me, but like I said, today's debacle was a near miss.

The moment I parked my truck and began my trek into the store, the same thing occurred.  My body thought it was time to unleash the Hounds of Hell at which moment, I tightly clenched my cheeks and I'm not talking about the rosy red ones on my face.  Now I had to quickly make my way inside the store, walking only from the knees down and very little movement everywhere else.  It was all eyes straight forward, avoid eye-contact with everyone and steer straight into the bathroom.  You avoid eye-contact because at moments like these, everyone becomes psychic and they suddenly know you're in peril and will either intervene, forcing the matter to be even more intense.  Or they'll stand back and stare with judging eyes.  Either way, I don't wish to engage.

Before the door was completely open, I saw a sign stating the toilet was out of order.  "Oh shit!!" I said aloud, but then noticed there were two stalls.  A reprieve!!  After removing my heavy coat and gloves is when I discovered the aftermath AND that I was wearing red underwear. 

I ate a salad on the weekend.  Within a few hours, the lettuce and everything had vacated my body and it wasn't pleasant.  At the time, I believed that it was because I may have put too much dressing on the salad.  I'd shaken the bottle so instead of thick ranch dressing oozing out of the bottle, it was a liquified ranch that came rushing out of the bottle.  So last night, when I finished off the pack of salad, I used much less dressing, even adding croutons and cheese to the blend.  So when I discovered the tragedy that had occurred in my skivvies, I was bewildered.

Later in the day, I had to consult Google as to whether salads cause diarrhea and guess what?  I was not the first person to pose this query to the search engine, nor am I the lone wolf affected by this.  Apparently, because salads are high in fibre, it promotes bowel movements and because lettuce has high water content, the afore mentioned bowel movements are often liquified.

🤨 The shit you learn...  Pardon the pun.

I finished out my tasks, including filling up with fuel.  The nastiness was behind me (Again, pardon the pun.)  I had makeshift protection in my pants in the form of folded T.P., which got me thinking about a product to pitch to the folks on Shark Tank.  A protection pad for men.  Similar to those pads that the ladies use, only these would be designed to guard against sharting.  It happens way too often.  Hell, I remember missing my best friend's son's baptism because I sharted on the way to the church.  That was not a near miss.  The attack that day struck with heavy vengeance.  Today's nastiness was mainly water, I believe, but this is bordering on T.M.I..

I had initially called them Shart Pads, but quickly changed the name to Shartnado Pads. [Patent Pending 😉] It's just a catchier name.